morsel of certain knowledge that I should some day be near her
once more.

And now, so much was easily revealed to me: it was to see her
that the good Lambert R. Poor Jr., had come to Paris, preceding
my patron; it was he who had passed with her on the last day of
my shame, and whom she had addressed by his central name of
Rufus, and it was to his hand that I had restored her parasol.

I was to look upon her face at last--I knew it--and to speak
with her. Ah, yes, I did tremble! It was not because I feared
she might recognize her poor slave of the painted head-top, nor
that Poor Jr. would tell her. I knew him now too well to think
he would do that, had I been even that other of whom he had
spoken, for he was a brave, good boy, that Poor Jr. No, it was a
trembling of another kind--something I do not know how to
explain to those who have not trembled in the same way; and I
came alone to my room in the hotel, still trembling a little and
having strange quickness of breathing in my chest.

I did not make any light; I did not wish it, for the precious
darkness of the Cathedral remained with me--magic darkness in
which I beheld floating clouds made of the dust of gold and
vanishing melodies. Any person who knows of these singular
things comprehends how little of them can be told; but to those
people who do not know of them, it may appear all great
foolishness. Such people are either too young, and they must
wait, or too old--they have forgotten!

It was an hour afterward, and Poor Jr. had knocked twice at my